Musings of the Sugar Addicted
by Zera Henna
Summary: These will be my personal writings. I will most likely post headcanons and maybe some poems. My personal insights on fandoms and other crap will be posted here. Expect long lengths of no posting and sudden multiple postings in one day. I find it calming to write things out. If you read these they might make you think. I ponder things that most people ignore. Maybe you can to.
1. About this

These will be my personal writings. I will most likely post headcanons and maybe some poems. My personal insights on fandoms and other crap will be posted here. Expect long lengths of no posting and sudden multiple postings in one day. I find it calming to write things out. If you read these they might make you think. A lot. I ponder things that most people ignore.

I'm lonely. Please don't judge. I don't judge you.


	2. Sugar

Sugar.

Its lovely, really.

When I was little it made me into a hyperactive little shit. Bounced off the walls. Made my mom have a headache.

My uncle Colin used to pick me up to have a sleep over. We'd watch that one show about how they take a poor family's house and tear it down to rebuild it. I'd always love the looks on the families faces after the crowd behind them and that really loud guy with a hyper active attitude screamed _"Move. That. Bus!"_

That look of fresh wonder and happiness and pure terror. So many of them stared at their new house as if if they stepped closer and held out their hands a fake background would fall over to reveal their old house, or an even worse version of it. Like they were transfixed. _No. I couldn't get this. I'm not good enough._

I know the feeling.

We would curl up on his worn couch and watch it on his old outdated TV. It still used the bunny ear things. The thingys that got the reception. He still doesn't have cable.

We'd fall asleep with the TV still on. And the next day we'd set out for Portland again, because he lived in Eugene. And right before he dropped me off, we'd stop at SafeWay. He'd get me too doughnuts, a lollipop and a packet of M&M's. And then he'd feed it to me, make me eat every single bite. Oh, it was great.

And then he'd drop me off at my moms, right after I ate it all. Right before the sugar rush. Not yet kicked in. He'd wipe my face of icing and crumbs. Tell me to stay quiet. Don't tell mommy what he had done. Shhh. It's a secret.

And then he'd leave me with my mother. Oh yes. He was sly. Evil. So perfectly wonderful.

I would not shut up of stay still for three fucking hours. I broke a vase once, while I was hyperactively swinging around in circles with my arms out. Dear lord, my mom still hates him for it. Of course I love him for it. And when my brother has kids, I'm going to fucking stuff them full of sugar and whisk them back to his place. I'm going to continue the legacy. I have to. Its my proper duty.

My uncle has Parkinsons now.

He's going to die soon.


	3. KeyChain

**KeyChain. Written for my girlfriend. To be honest we are quite an awkward bunch. So this needed to be said.**

I sometimes sit back and wonder

what would waiting

for you to come home

feel like

what would I do

in the meantime

would you text me your progress

how the traffic is annoying you

maybe I'll wander around the apartment and

make some tea in the microwave

with a blanket wrapped around my

body as the end of the blanket drags

on the floor and

our cat sweeps up and rubs my legs with

a quiet questioning purr asking me

when you're coming home.

Sometimes I sit back and wonder

hope

that it will be you who opens that door with

the keys that clatter and jingle

and the cheap _forever _charm that

somewhat fits with the _together _charm attached

to my car keys

that lay at our bedside table

and not some future stranger with no face in

my mind

and I pray that we stay the same and

never loose the awkward steps and

stuttered words that make us so fresh

and new

but I also wish to map out every freckle

every fleck on your pale skin

and the way we laugh saying

this will be the last words before we go to bed

a fleeting lie that is

only followed by more giggles

Sometimes I lay on the couch and stare

at your face and hope that you

see me here and that I'm not

as invisible to you as I am to myself

and I hope with quiet desperation that you

like what you see and

wish to see it more than you already

do

but the quiet nagging that is holding me back eats me

alive as the voice

muses with annoying certainty

that you and me and this cat

are just a fading fantasy that

will never worm it's way into less-than flickering

existence and I

worry at night that you will take

my quiet uncertainty and read that wrongly.

Sometimes I stand at the window

and stare out into the neighbors yard

imagining me as a more

outgoing person

when it comes to loving you

were I hug you with strong

sure arms

and whisper that I love you in such a tone

that there is no doubt in your mind

and you know it is true

but the real me cowers before that fantasy me

for I am flawed and have the hardest time

even touching you without worrying that

_I am doing it wrong_.

When I'm with you and I feel

this pull and I look up and

see you and I just

want to touch you and kiss you

and I think of it and I wish it

but I shy away from the idea because

you might not want it then

or ever

my emotions are under lock and key

and I suppress them and to others I look

heartless and cold

but in reality I am scared and crave you

to look at me

and speak to me

and listen to me

and touch me

and smile at me

and it would take all my energy to lean in and

whisper in your ear

it would take all my courage to even mouth the words in

voiceless speech

it would crush every single one of my stored-up bravery

to glance at you and

say it

I know someday it will all just come spilling out

rushed and blurred and hushed and faintly resembling the

tremble of the most scared person in ever existence

we could be anywhere

in the library or in our room or in my mothers kitchen

at a Starbucks or on the street or in the halls of your future collage

on the bus or in the back of my dads van or my stepfathers new car

in the river or on the beach or at the Humane Society's kitten room

on our bed or on the floor or in the basement

or at the dining room in the middle of a formal dinner

we could be anywhere and I would just blurt out the words and

speak them in an urgency that would make everything and everyone

in the room or on the street or in the car or coffee shop

look up in surprise and I swear

you will stare and stand or sit or lay there like you never expected me to

say

_how much I love the way you smile and how beautiful you are when you are sad_

_how much I miss you when you are away and how much I love your eyes_

_how much your art means to me and how much you make me laugh_

_how much I love the way you walk and talk and cry_

_how much you make me smile_

_how much I love you_

_and how much I want you to know that I am here to listen_

_and to complain to_

_and to cry on_

_and to laugh with_

_and to share this thing called life_

_and to love and care_

and I sit here and wonder if you feel the same way

if you want that too

if you picture that apartment and blanket and key chain and laughter and bedside table and car and that cat

and I wonder when you'll tell me what you love about me

I wonder if you'll over come your shyness and blurt it out to me on a Saturday evening

and I wonder where,

where this fantasy of yours and mine

will collide

and if they ever will

one day

be said

out loud

in trembling words


	4. Laura

I was just informed today that my old friend Laura got an abortion a month ago.

I'm all for reproductive rights. If you want to go get an abortion then go right ahead. Its your body. If you wanna keep the baby, that's fine too. Again, not my body.

But Laura is reckless. She takes drugs. Fucks guys behind dirty garbage bins behind her rundown school. I caught sight of her once. Last year. When I went to visit my other friend at their school. Her skirt was hitched up and her fifth boyfriend of the month was behind her with his fly unzipped and his boxers moved aside.

I don't think she saw me. I only took a glance. I didn't want to see any more. I had silently hoped she had made him use a condom, but I knew more likely than not that she wouldn't tell him to.

A few years ago she lost her virginity.

"How was it?" I was curious. Just like any other 13 year-old who still didn't classify with a spicific sexuality. To be honest, I still don't. I just don't care. You are who you are, and you love who you love, as my mom put it.

"It hurt." She chewed her bottom lip. "But you should have seen him after words. Treated me like a queen."

I was a wary girl. Still am. Old for my age, I guess. I didn't stray off what really mattered. "Did you use a condom?"

"What?"

"A condom." I said slowly.

"Oh. Um." she shifted from foot to foot. "I don't remember."

Liar.

I was scared for her. I knew she wouldn't keep it together. I tried my best to worm doubt into her head, just enough to make her think about something before she did it. Condoms. Birth control. _Maybe you should just wait._

"If he rejects you or breaks up with you after you tell him no, not right now, you are better off without him." Yeah. Okay. I was an old woman by the age of 12. My mom was smart enough to tell me the flat, undying truth. All of it. And I saw it for what it was. Truth. All true. No idiotic parent bullshit like what my dad spews. She was deadpan and I was smart. Not that Laura was an idiot. But she was still a kid. I was too. We didn't know what we wanted. Still don't.

We were thirteen and twelve. I was the first and she was the latter.

I'm all for open sexuality. Fuck whom ever you want. But only if you are ready. Really, truly ready. And she wasn't. But I stayed quiet. Not truly quiet, because I needed her to hear reason. Just not loud enough that she would ignore me and tell me I was just like the "grown ups". It was always us or them. Them or us._ Adults are so mean. Adults are so unfair. Adults don't know what they are talking about._

I pondered that. I was fairly certain some of that was true for some adults. There are still grown people out there with everything lost because they never grew up. Because they are afraid to. Responsibilities and work and mortgage and paying off insurance doesn't really fit the "fun" description, I guess. And somehow wasting away your life with a needle in your arm and pipe in your mouth and your landlord kicking you out for overdue rent is. Fun. Sure. What ever.

But there are lots of steady adults. Lots of fun old ladies. Lots of happy people, living their lives in houses and apartments and condos. I once met a guy who had chosen to live on the streets for a whole month. Live with the old and wasting away junkies. Because he knew. He knew that if he didn't wake himself up, show this side of his impending doom, that he would loose it all. Become a junkie on the street. Eat up his trust fund with his rapidly forming addiction to cocaine. He has a kid now. And an awesome boyfriend. They got to adopt. He's been clean for five years. He's a success story. But not all of them are.

All adults had been teens once. It boggles me how many teens don't get that.

But he started late and stopped early. Habits are hard to break. He knew that. But Laura started early and for some reason I just know she wont last very long. I'm not there to push reason onto her anymore. I crossed the line. I told the truth. And she did not like it. I was fed up with her. She was rapidly going down hill and I couldn't just sit there and whisper little lingerings of "safe sex" and "no pot."

No. It would destroy me. It would destroy her.

She came to school drunk, the last time I talked to her as a friend. Totally fucked out of her mind. She threw up in the bathroom stall downstairs. I told her a lie. _The paper towels are out. I'll go get some more._ And then I ran. Ran all the way into the office.

_Snitch._ I could care less. I saved you from alcohol poisoning._ Lair._ I never told you I would never tell. I told you I would keep it quiet if you promised not to endanger yourself. You're the lair. _I hate you._ Well that's too bad. I still love you. That's why I did this. I tried to save you. And I did. Over and over and over. _Never talk to me again._ Alright. Fine. What ever.

She got an abortion last month. Her second one in two years.

She's fifteen.


	5. Imagination: Sherlock

Sherlock is staring at me from across the room. Not really, I'm not that far gone to hallucinate that vividly. But my imagination is quite lifelike. And he's annoyed. Like always.

"You're so annoying."

"One could say that about you, too." I like talking to things I think up, even if they arn't my characters. But I don't exactly seem to have control of what they say to me. They take hold of my writing. They take hold of my imagination. I know what they would say, what they would do. So I can't stop them. My mind is to true to the character. It drives me nuts, in a way.

"You have doubts." He stated.

"About what?" I am truly curious.

"If your mad."

"Ah." I glanced down at my notepad. Its blank. I sigh.

"But you're not, you know." he said sincerely.

Well that was a surprise.

"No?" I know I talk so differently in my head. I talk in my mind like I was born in a Harvard family. It's rather weird.

"No. but you'd like to be."

"Right. That makes sense." No it doesn't. I'm really confused. I considered locking him away again, but I'm too interested to bother.

"You know you're different. An it bothers you." Yes, that's true. There are only a handful of idiots who imagine Sherlock in their bedroom. Unless he's naked, making passes at them and whispering 'fascinating' in your fine tuned ear. Every fangirl's fantasy. Except for me. I just enjoy conversation. I've actually never thought of any character having their way with me. Because that's impossible. I'm not in the TV show or book. I can insert myself, surely. Pretend that I'm a Hunter or a clever mastermind or Fringe Agent or Detective on CSI Miami. I can be friends with the characters and even be like their long-lost family. But my mind rejects the thought of going against canon or my favorite pairing. That's why my OC's are always in the background. I don't want to mess the characters up with my own. That's just wrong.

Their not mine to fuck with. Literally.

"It bothers you because we're all you have."

Okay. That's enough for now. Take your deductions and deduct somewhere else. In your little flat with John you go. Back into my Mind Castle. Go shag your boyfriend. Solve a case. I'll call you later when I need you.

I don't think I'm sleeping again tonight.

Damn it.


	6. Siblings

I hate it when my siblings decide they are going to cry. You can see it all on their faces before its truly there.

Its like a fucking science. They calculate the situation. What impact will I have if I give a little sob? Not enough for the situation? Okay. I'm going to fucking scream me head off now. Make myself throw up. Throw a fucking fit.

I'm already fucking sleep deprived and you're acting like a little shit on purpose. No I'm not going to fucking look at you with fucking pity. When I was your fucking age I had to play with my fucking self. These little shits are only half related to me. My dad decided it would be funny if he got my stepmom pregnant literally right after my little halfbrother was born. Two kids a year apart.

I've never liked kids. They get under your nerves. Pretend they are smarter than you. Push your buttons. It's a whole new kind of mental abuse.

No wonder I'm going mental. I guess I had no choice.

Its hilarious, really. I avoid them at all costs. Its not like I think their "tainted". And I feel really fucking sorry they have to share my dad. I hope he doesn't mentally fuck them up. He did with me and my mom. God knows what he'll do to them.

Whats funny is the fact that I value my other brother the most. He's not even related to me. My stepmom had him before I even met her. Another guy.

He's fucking fantastic. Rants about Doctor Who and silently ships JohnLock. He makes sexual jokes and references like no tomorrow.

"How was homework?" "Hard." "You bet it was. You probably made it throb." That's my boy. You make those dick puns. You go, boy. You fucking go.

He's 12. I think I started working at making him an inappropriate bastard from the get-go. I have done quite well, if I do say so myself. My dads annoyed. Before, he was so submissive. Easy to manipulate. A new target for his constant mental haggering.

And then I taught my brother something big. That you don't have to fucking bend backwards to make others' happy. If you are perfectly fine and not doing anything wrong, fuck them. Tell them to lay off your case. You're not a personal butler. Want the remote? Don't stare at me as if I should hand it to you. Its a yard from your fucking face. Get it yourself.

My dad can't touch him. He's out of his reach. Way above his head. Does what he wants when he fucking wants.

I'm pretty sure my dad hates me for that. It's one of the very few things I love me for.

I choose to not look too closely at the irony of that.


	7. For You

She sits

And laughs at her own jokes.

She sees eyes

As hallow buttons

And asks

Where are their souls?

She cries while

Watching TV

Where their eyes

Are just like hers.

She reads

A story that takes a chunk of her heart

And never lets it go.

She is a child of the weak

A child of the strong

And she sees demons all day long.

Her sense of smell is off

She ignores the pitches the others' give off.

On the TV it seems so real

But in life it's turned off.

Within the crowd as she hides

Is a person just like her.

Her eyes are like the ones in movies and books

And her smile isnt twisted like the others'.

Demons swarm all around them

Button eyes blank

The other girl flinches

She wants to leave this place.

Go up to her

And whisper something funny.

If she laughs,

Shes just for you. 


	8. Two Faces

_**One Face.**_

_Warnings: __**Trigger.**__ Blood. __**Suicide.**__ Mental disorder. __**Self harm.**__ Multiple personalities._

_This is just a random drabble._

_Inspired by a friend I lost a few years back. I miss you, Hail. (and Gorn, her other side.)_

8-8-8

The first time I saw her was when I was in one of my dozes.

I stared blankly at the wall and from the corner of my eye I could see a flicker of orange.

I drew my eyes away from the wall and dragged them across her face. "You have orange hair." I said slowly, in the most detached tone.

"And no soul."

How curious. "You don't believe that."

Her expression dared me to prove it.

8-8-8

After a few years she was released.

"She's just staring at the wall again." One of the nurses said.

"She does that."

No I don't.

Who does that? It sounds so boring.

8-8-8

Mental disorders. I wonder if they really are "Disorders." Are we really disorderly? Because the woman with blue hair and eyes of pure fire that lives down the hall is quite orderly.

She screamed when I ruined her blouse with my blood.

"Do you know how much bleach I'll have to use to get this out?!"

I slashed my wrists and directed the spray to her face. I think I laughed.

"You are supposed to stop her," one of the calm ones said.

"And ruin this skirt?"

The puddle looked like a crimson lake.

"I want to go sailing," I whispered and fell.

8-8-8

"I killed someone today." The girl with black nails drawled. Her teeth were perfect and white.

It was almost blinding.

"You're lying," one of the guys blurted.

"Her time isn't like yours," I heard myself mutter. "She meant she will kill someone. Today."

He blinked and turned back to her. "Liar."

She wasn't lying. That night red water stained the floor.

The woman in blue suits weren't happy. They get taken away and replaced if the red waterfall flows.

I think the act is beautiful.

8-8-8

I liked walls. They had hidden patterns in it. Just like me. I had hidden patterns.

I'm not quite sure from where. They were rough and crusty and they felt deep.

Hidden patterns all over my skin. I can't decipher them. Their in perfect rows but in imperfect places.

And they just keep coming. Where did they come from?

Pretty patterns on my skin.

If they come and stay, why do they never leave?

8-8-8

I like the look of red splashed on white.

I'm leaving a trail on the floor. I don't know where I'm going.

I look for some paper. Maybe I can use my flow as ink.

But I don't know what to write.

8-8-8

disorder.

Red and white.

Two of us.

I'm tired of sharing the same place. She don't even know I'm here. I try to tell her.

Patterns on my skin.

Her skin.

Our skin.

She likes the walls of white.

Maybe I should paint the walls for her. I'll use my bare hands.

8-8-8

I don't like the wall in my room. Its colored pink now. Someone decided to paint my walls, but I didn't like it.

Neither did the blue suits. They scrubbed it off.

My wrists ache. But they won't let me see. They say its the color of cherries.

What an awful color, red.

8-8-8

Someones in my head. I need to get them out. I don't like this. It's uncomfortable.

8-8-8

The patterns are getting deeper. Is the other one doing this to me?

She left me a note.

She likes it. The body water under her skin.

Our skin.

8-8-8

Suicide watch.

It's like they've never learned from before.

I use my teeth this time.

It tastes good.

8-8-8

I told her I was sorry. But I don't think she'll ever know.


	9. Brooke's Moon

You sing your song

You say you're hopeless

beyond repair

farther than the moon

but to be honest, I see you there

grounded beyond the sea

with your open eyes and wandering soul

searching, searching high and low

for the things you wish to call hope

you are a little demon and smite on your way

and an angel as you wander aimlessly

a hopeless romantic, you say

and smile with the laziness of a Sunday

you can tie my hands with invisible string and play me

like a violin

and perhaps you might let me go if I tell you my greatest sin

you can hold me with your lines of taped musings about pornography

but not the steady rate of bleeding photography

see you smile in such a way that the lines will melt between you and me

and our hands touch glass as we see our mirror images and weep

you say phrases that captivate the listener but never quite loose the mind

you win the hearts of the very few that are hard to find

but as you float away on your orbit of the moon

you sing to us and we sigh like fools

your shining armor glints like a star

and no one ever sees the chips and tears in the steel, so far

because to us, you are so much more than flaws

and yet you wonder some days what is this all for

and if you would like to visit planet earth

refuse to be there any longer, but when we come,

you are out of orbit

the demon in you say to smite them far

the angel wishes to leave them all

and when you return after seeing all of this so far

you still smile and reach out an arm

please don't leave me I'd rather not be alone

I love you, so don't hurt me,

this is my song

what a lovely song to sing as we harmonize our own melody 


	10. Dry Throat

_(about no one and everyone)_

Today I promise

that I will never break you down

today I say

I will never hurt you now

but tomarrow I know

you will forget the gentleness

of my hands

tomarrow you will lay

down with someone else

and I know you are

supposed to be my shame

and I know

I should be so angry

but I sit quietly and think to myself

and then you walk into the doorway

and I smile at you

as if I have no idea

but I know

you will always come home

to me

and that it good enough

for me


	11. Fairy Tale

I always laugh at the ideas that intrude into my head

and try to focus on the happiness instead

but my life is no fairytale,

so my thoughts quickly slip into dread

sometimes I wake up and lay inside my bed

and lure myself out with the promises I know are dead

but my hand will never stop shaking

so let me wail and never fret

my hands are steady with the knife,

as I cut through lies to see the right

but my heartbeats with shuddering hints

and my lips begin to slip

_there is a world of glory gold_

_where I am always to be held_

_with a lair I do rest_

_as I try my hardest to do best_

_we hold hands,_

_she has no face_

_but with this I do have faith_

_you see me here in the garden,_

_green and wild and abandoned_

_but I am blind and can not see_

I speak to myself and hold onto my head

it throbs but I will not be dead

I am brimming with hopeless philosophy,

and others refuse my helpful tread

my lines are blured, but can't you see?

Mad in minds make good threads

we weave worlds and create others to place our dread

and within we place our locked happiness

instead, instead

I sit and flail

in my bed, wet and pale

so distant and so frail, but who am I,

what do you tell?

Am I crazy, or have _you _lost a vital detail?

_There is a world where I am told_

_is not there and should never take hold_

_but I favor it, you see_

_and rather be here with "We",_

_than just "Me"._


	12. Writers Block

Writers block,

writers block

seizing up my soul

the poison

writers block

seeping through my blood

writers block,

writers block

hands refuse to move

ideas start,

ideas stop

and I sing the blues.


End file.
